


in the darkness i will meet my creators (and they will all agree that i'm a suffocator)

by Authors_Restraint



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow is called Jaehaerys, Jon needs someone to take care of him after all the shit he's been through, Jonsa established relationship before S7, Jonsa ruling and healing their kingdom and each other, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, My babies need a hug, Politics and Porn, Porn With Plot, Sansa is Lady of Winterfell and Queen regent, Sansa needs love and affection, Starts after the credits begin rolling in S6 finale, That's it, They give a giant fuck you to Westeros, This is basically Jonsa getting together while still thinking themselves siblings, and lots of orgasms because it's what she deserves, calling both your sons Aegon is stupid, don't give an f about canon, like lots of sex, protective!Jon, slowish burn, that's the whole story, the castle staff knows they're banging, then they have sex, they're not really fooling anyone, you don't talk bout The King and The Lady of Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 06:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authors_Restraint/pseuds/Authors_Restraint
Summary: Sansa sees it; the way their relationship has changed as of late. She would be blind not to. She more than just sees it. She feels it.She wonders if he feels it too. She's not sure what it means. Then again, she's sure of very little these days, she supposes.She's sure in her knowing that just because they've taken back Winterfell, it doesn't mean that their hold on it is strong.She's sure that just because a certain mockingbird has declared for House Stark, it doesn't mean that he won't soon look to collect on his reward; to make that pretty picture in that head of his a reality.She's sure that she trusts Jon as he's the only remaining constant in the partial insanity that's now become her life. She's sure that she trusts his rage, his honour and his loyalty to their family.She's not sure however of the ways he looks at her - nor the ways said looks make her feel - nor of the ways he tends after her.He never smiles - only at her and only when they're alone - and he rarely speaks unless the situation demands it. He's gentler with her in a way no one's ever been, and in a way she doesn't understand.Mayhaps, she thinks. Mayhaps he feels it too.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, um hi there. I'm actually a bit nervous as this is my first Jonsa fic and the quality of writing for this pairing's left me a little intimidated but um here goes.
> 
> Can't believe the way I fell for these two. It was so unexpected but I'm so glad that I did! Their chemistry is unbelievable and I was pretty excited to write for them. 
> 
> Like the tags said, Jonsa get together before S7 because I wanted to play around with the idea of the two of them developing feelings for each other, completely uncaring of the fact that they're 'siblings' plus I wanted to see how S7 would pan out with an established Jonsa.
> 
> I really hope to do these characters justice, including Daenerys even though she's done some morally fucked up things the past few seasons. 
> 
> So, without further ado, I give you my story.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sansa sees it; the way their relationship has changed as of late. She would be blind not to. 

She more than just sees it. She  _feels_ it.

It is in the way she and Jon will just sit quietly in their solar - either his or hers depending on which one is the closest at the given time - him simply sharpening Longclaw with a whetstone, and her busying herself by mending his shirts. It is a task that by right should be left to the handmaidens but Sansa does not trust them to get the perfect and precise stitching on Jon's clothes. Sansa will have nothing but the utmost precision for him. He is a King and his clothes will reflect that. Jon will not care - Jon  _doesn't_ care - but he allows her these small concessions.

She wonders if he knows that it is borne from a need to keep herself busy. When she sits idly for too long, her mind strays and Sansa will have her thoughts nowhere the not too distant past.

It is in the way that she and Jon have become more or less everything to their people - him as King, her as Lady of Winterfell, for all intents and purposes his Sister-Queen - and to each other.

She seeks him out sometimes when she has the humility to admit to herself that she's missed his presence. He always gives her his undivided attention. Never mind the fact that he's other more important matters to attend to.

He watches out for her and over her despite her adamance that she can take care of herself.

She sometimes wonders if he does it out of pity but then she'll correct herself. That isn't Jon and she curses herself for thinking that he pities her.

Mayhaps it is duty.

_Family. Duty. Honour._

These words describe Jon to a tee and if it isn't for the fact that he looks so much like Father, Sansa would think him a Tully.

She wonders sometimes if Jon only cares because she's the only family he has left - a sister who spurned him when they were younger because she was too stupid to realize what she had, how unbelievably  _lucky_ she'd been; a sister who was as broken inside as she was on the outside - or if he cares because of duty and honour to their father.

He's protective and sometimes overly so.

She's not displeased. Not really. She's quite touched actually. Jon is a simple, taciturn man and the way he looks after her reflects that fact.

It is in the way that he always makes sure that there is a jug of water and a glass at her bedside before she goes to sleep because he knows of her night terrors. He knows how the screams make her throat hoarse and thus the water is there for her to wet her throat, and for her to calm down.

It is in the way he always seeks her opinion on matters concerning the North. Whenever they meet in council with his Hand, Ser Davos, or their bannermen, he always turns his head towards her with his eyebrows raised expectantly. He always asks if she has anything to add. He may not always like what she has to say, nor does he always heed her advice but he always,  _always_ seeks it.

It is in the way he responds to physical contact. 

 _Her_ physical contact, to be more specific.

Whenever she takes his hand or lays hers upon his when they're sitting in the Great Hall, he'll always flinch as if he's gone too long without any physical interaction with anyone. He'll flinch but Sansa notices that he never shies way from her. When her hand touches his, he'll lace their fingers together and run his thumb over the back of her palm. She'll glance at him sideways but his face will always remain in the same stoic expression that will remind her of her their Father. And she remembers how that thought - the thought that she and Jon share a father - will cause her blood to run cold and a sinking feeling to develop in her chest. Still, she never pulls away from him, and neither does he pull away from her.

It is in all the little things they do for each other and for their kingdom. Winter is here and in winter they must protect themselves. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

She and Jon are the last of the pack, the last of the Starks - she cares little for the fact that he doesn't himself such; he will always be a Stark to her - and they have to take care of each other. She has to protect Jon. He protects them from the literal monsters but she must protect him from the ones whom he cannot see.

She must protect him from the ones who smile at him and call him 'Your Grace' with respect as if they truly mean it. She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell and she won't let anyone take him away from her for he is all she has. She has to make sure that he stays safe because Sansa knows that Littlefinger waits in the wings of the castle, plotting, preparing. He'll want his reward for helping them in the Battle of the Bastards.

While Jon prepares their kingdom for the Great War, she fights another war within their home. They've only won Winterfell back merely two moons now but they must fight to keep it. 

Jon had been right when he'd said that they had so many enemies now. Enemies to the North, to the South, to the East, to the West and right within their own home. They are  _surrounded_   by enemies.

It is in the way they are protective of each other like they've never been before, and closer in a way their past selves would have never  _dreamed_ of being.

It is only natural that their relationship changes. It is only natural that the lines between them become blurred.

 


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the people who left kudos <3 <3 <3  
> Thanks for all the feedback!  
> This one's a little short and in Sansa's pov again. Don't worry, we'll get Jon's pov soon!

Sansa watches him sometimes.

 

It is only when she's certain that he is so focused on whatever task him occupied that he won't register her eyes on him. She doesn't watch him for long but she can't help that she does.

 

Like now, for instance. They're in the Lord's chambers and save for the soft crackle of the fires burning and the rustle of parchments, the room is quiet.

 

He is...quite pleasant to look at.

 

She's allowed to think so, isn't she?

 

It's not like she's making a jape. He is quite pleasing to the eyes. When they were younger, girls and other people alike (including older women) used to call him pretty. They'd whisper of him behind his back. _Ned Stark's pretty bastard,_ they'd call him. Sansa's head had been too full of golden princes and heroic knights – who were anything but heroic; she knows better now – than to spare a thought for her bastard half-brother and her Father's greatest shame.

 

The people back then hadn't been wrong. Jon _is_ pretty. _Very_ pretty, though Sansa will never say such words aloud. His curly black hair is the kind that is found in the stories and songs of old, and his grey eyes are so piercing and sharp that they cut you with their gaze. He looks very much like their father but his lips – full, pouty lips; _whore's_ lips – most certainly don't. Whoever his mother is, _was_ , he must have gotten that from her. The feminine quality of them is exactly why people call him _pretty_.

 

She imagines that one day songs will sung about him; The Bastard Who Became A King; The White Wolf; The Pretty Wolf-Boy.

 

Sansa grimaces slightly. That last title doesn't exactly sound _poetic_.

 

It does not escape her that she has spent a lot of time observing these things for she is able to distinguish the shape of Jon's lips. Her cheeks feel hot whenever she realizes that she's been quite fixated on his mouth. She can't deny its beauty and though Sansa has renounced the ideals of her former self, she still has an eye for pretty things. She can still appreciate them but with an apathy, no longer a longing to have them. It is with that very same apathy that she's able to appreciate the pretiness of Jon's lips. Of his mouth.

 

Still, she has to shift her position from where she is currently because the realization makes her slightly uncomfortable; the realization that for the past few minutes she's done nothing but sit and stare at her half-brother's pretty lips when by rights she should be doing something productive.

 

Like her needle-work, for example. The unfinished pair of leather gloves that are too big for her – _once_ – delicate hands, sit in her lap, mocking her silently, she thinks.

 

She curses herself for her stupidity softly but it makes Jon look up from whatever it is that he is doing all the same.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

He always sounds so concerned and it annoys her as much as it endears him to her.

 

“I'm fine,” she replies, her voice curt.

He looks at her then, his eyes dark amidst the dim light and she doesn't know why he looks at her so. She doesn't particularly care for the way such a look makes her feel, either. She looks away; a dismissal. She doesn't mean to be that way but she cannot help it.

 

It is his eyes, she tells herself.

 

His eyes are the eyes of Father.

 

Yet, Sansa knows, that Father's gaze had never made such strange tingling sensations in her abdomen.

 

 


	3. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon knows some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, the reception this story's gotten is just like so overwhelming I can't even believe it!  
> Thank you to all of you who's left kudos! It feels so amazing to know you guys are intrigued. Feedback feeds me.
> 
> Jon's pov this time.
> 
> Enjoy!

They take a walk together, she and him.

 

Her arm is looped through his and they walk the castle halls like their father and her lady mother did before them.

 

Ser Davos walks beside them and Maester Wolkan behind. Together, the four of them observe the goings on of Winterfell.

 

The master-at-arms is in the courtyard, training the children between ten and sixteen, boy and girl just as Jon's instructed him to. He spots Little Lyanna Mormont amongst the eager youths. For a moment, it makes him feel almost ill. He's preparing children, _children_ , for a war that they should have no business fighting.

 

In what kind of world is that right? Or fair?

 

Jon shakes his head internally as he muses, _the fucked up one we live in._

 

He looks down at them from the ramparts and his entourage stops as he does. For a moment Jon doesn't see the children of the castle's staff, or of the Lords and Ladies.

 

For a moment Jon sees six children, four true-born, one bastard and one ward.

 

For a moment Jon sees children who'd had to grow up too fast.

 

For a moment Jon sees the remnants of a family that no longer exists.

 

“Your Grace?”

 

Jon blinks slowly as the vision slowly fades. His already tense expression tightens.

 

_Your Grace._

 

Oh how he _loathes_ that phrase. That such a title should come from Sansa's lips seems like adding insult to injury. She has no business calling him 'Your Grace.' She shouldn't fucking have to when _he's_ the one who's usurped her crown.

 

Robb's crown.

 

_Father's_ crown.

 

Never mind the fact that Ned Stark was never a king. The responsibility would have suited him better.

 

“Jon?”

 

He takes a deep breath and looks at his sister. Her hand, where it rests in the crook of his elbow, tightens slightly, a silent question.

 

_What's wrong?_

 

He still hasn't gotten used to how physically affectionate Sansa is with him now when years ago she wouldn't have _dared_ waste her time with his presence. Sometimes he doesn't know how to react to such attentions from her but she's his sister and they're all each other has.

 

“Nothing, my lady.”

 

She glances at him slightly, her blue eyes soft – he realizes then that her eyes are only soft on him – and he gives her an appeasing half-smile. Sansa needn't concern herself with his musings of a world dead and gone.

 

They continue their walk, Ser Davos, Sansa and the Maester updating him on all what's been going with the staff. Sansa tells him of the granaries' upkeep and that she's sent a raven south to her Uncle Edmure who's retaken Rivverun, requesting supplies.

 

Now _this,_ preparing their people for the upcoming Winter, this is what Jon would rather spend his day doing. He doesn't doubt that he'd be good at it. His time as Lord Commander, and at the Wall, has taught him very much about rationing.

 

He'd rather leave all the politicking to Sansa – she's far better at it than he, having spent the longest time in the South – and concern himself with these tasks. All he cares about is making sure that his people – and Sansa most of all – are well prepared for The Long Night.

 

Their servants bow and curtsy whenever they pass and part of Jon wishes they wouldn't. He says nothing however, maintaining that solemn expression on his face that everyone says looks so much like his father.

 

Along the way, Maester Wolkan and Ser Davos are drawn away, Ser Davos to oversee the training – the man _was_ Hand to Stannis, after all; Stannis, who was a formidable warrior – and Maester Wolkan to go collect the missives that have arrived.

 

It is just him and Sansa and part of Jon is grateful for it. She's quiet – she always is – and by the direction she's taking, it's obvious she's heading for the Godswood. He doesn't care for the gods – old or new, not after he'd died and realized that there wasn't anything beyond – but he understands the certain peace and tranquility the place provides.

 

There's also the fact that it holds so many memories for the both of them; good and bad.

 

They sit together in silence and he relishes in this moment for soon enough they will have to return to their duties. Him as King, her as Lady of Winterfell and Queen Regent. Not for the first time, Jon thinks that Sansa has gotten the better end of the bargain – barring the fact that she should have been named Queen in the first godsdamned place – for her duties are far more practical than his. He would have been just fine commanding Winterfell's Queensguard.

 

A sigh escapes him, one that he hadn't been planning on letting out. He feels her eyes on him, probably wondering what's wrong with him this time. He wonders as if he looks as tired as he feels.

 

Sleep has not come easily to him. Not that he would be expecting it to after all the shit that's happened the past two moons – nay, the past _year._ If it isn't the black nothingness that he sees whenever he closes his eyes, it is Rickon's broken body shot through with arrows or Ramsay _fucking_ Bolton with a smirk on his face even as Jon pummels his head to the ground.

 

One can see why he's foregone sleep.

 

“Jon?”

 

He blinks slowly, the action taking longer than it should. Sansa sounds concerned when she has no right to be. She should not have to be worried about him.

 

“I'm sorry, my lady,” he begins.

 

He is always mindful to address her by her title whenever they are out of their solar. He always reminds Sansa that though he may be King, _she's_ the true Lady of the household.

 

“I'm just a bit tired.” He winces internally. He doesn't mean to say that. Has he not just said that he will not have her worried about him?

 

Sansa doesn't respond but takes his hand instead, and in a move that he's certain must surprise her as much as it does him, kisses his knuckles reverently. He flinches because how, after all that she's been through – after all that...that _monster_ put her through – can she still be so gentle and loving?

 

Mayhaps he should amend that. Sansa is gentle and loving but she can be vicious. Quite vicious, in fact. Ramsay would still be alive if she wasn't. The Northern Lords and Ladies called him The White Wolf. If he's The White Wolf, then Sansa's The Red Wolf, her justice swift and her judgment fair.

 

Again, Jon doesn't understand _why_ she hadn't been crowned Queen.

 

He looks at her, his hand still clasped in hers and her expression is somewhat shy, as if she believes she's done something wrong. He softens what must surely look like a tense expression, to let her know that it's alright.

 

She's his sister. If she wishes to be affectionate with him, she can damn well be. He's not going to complain.

 

He lowers their joined hands to his lap, lacing their fingers, stroking the back of her palm with his thumb. It has strangely become his wont as of late. He's been doing it long enough to know that the action soothes her.

 

They continue sitting like that until they – _Sansa_ – deem it time to return to their duties. Sansa rises to her feet and so does Jon. She does not allow him to escort her out of the Godswood, even though he's offered. Before she leaves, Jon takes her hand and kisses her knuckles as reverently as she's done his.

 

They don't see each other until dinner.

 


End file.
